


In the Depths of Winter

by OceanTheSoulRebel



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bedsharing, First Kisses, M/M, Winter, threats of frostbite and hypothermia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21891424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OceanTheSoulRebel/pseuds/OceanTheSoulRebel
Summary: Winter.Zevran hates winter.He hates the way it sinks into his bones. He hates the way it clings to his armor and soaks his clothes with melted snow and sweat. He hates the way it makes him shiver and tremble, weak and weary.Zevran hates the way it makes him think of his Antiva, with its white-gold sand beaches and high sun that kisses everything it touches, and the smiling, quick-witted people, even if they are Crows.Zevran loathes winter, but perhaps there's something redeeming about the season, after all.
Relationships: Alistair/Zevran Arainai
Comments: 38
Kudos: 90





	In the Depths of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> For Dee!

Winter. 

Zevran  _ hates _ winter. 

He hates the way it sinks into his bones. He hates the way it clings to his armor and soaks his clothes with melted snow and sweat. He hates the way it makes him shiver and tremble, weak and weary. 

Zevran hates the way it makes him think of his Antiva, with its white-gold sand beaches and high sun that kisses everything it touches, and the smiling, quick-witted people, even if they are Crows.

“You okay?” Alistair asks. His hand is a brand where it reaches and touches Zevran’s forehead. Zevran shudders, and Alistair frowns.

“I’m freezing,” Zevran retorts shortly. “I do not know how you can stand all the--this.” He flings his arms out in irritation. 

Alistair takes Zevran’s hands; his heart lurches at the contact, and he whimpers when Alistair slides his beaten leather gloves from his fingers. Alistair studies them, turning them over in his examination, crooking Zevran’s fingers at each joint. 

“What are you doing?” Zevran asks, barely a whisper. He ignores the way blood rushes to his face, heating his cheek like a burn. 

“Checking for hypothermia. It sets in easily for folks who aren’t used to it, and, well.” Alistair blushes and slips the gloves back onto Zevran’s hands. “You’re still wearing pteurges and leather leggings,” he says, like it explains anything. “We should check how much longer ‘til we make camp. You could use a fire.” 

Zevran groans. “Ask if it could be now,” he grouses, “I am about to fall asleep on my feet.” 

Alarm chases over Alistair’s face. “I, yeah. I’ll do that.” 

Zevran watches Alistair’s hustling back as he runs to the front of their little convoy. “And what is so wrong with leggings?” Zevran asks himself, looking down at his legs. He flexes his toes in his boots and winces at the resulting pain. “They’re comfortable!” 

He plods forward. 

He really, really hates winter. 

* * *

Alistair must make a pretty begging face--the Warden calls a halt for the day. 

Zevran’s fingers slip as he attempts to set up his tent, not once, not twice, not even thrice, but a full five times. He swears in Antivan, not bothering to quiet himself as pain flares in his hands, shooting up his arm like tiny blades. 

“Need some help?” 

“What I need is for winter to remove its teeth from my throat,” Zevran grumbles. He waves ineffectively at the mass of fabric and tent poles that is his gifted shelter before shoving his freezing hands in his armpits. “Be my guest.” 

Alistair crouches low and takes on the task with a snort. “You really never have experienced winter?” 

Zevran shakes his head, shuddering. “Antiva never gets this cold, not even at Satinalia. Snow is a bare little thing, afraid of lighting upon our proud lands. No,” he says dryly, “I’ve never experienced winter.”

Alistair hums, the tent slowly building beneath his skilled hands. His skilled warm hands, Zevran thinks wistfully. 

“Winter’s always been my favorite season,” Alistair confides quietly. He ties the tent posts together and sets the frame. “Sure, summer’s easier, but it has its own issues.” He makes a face. “I can always put on more clothes if I’m cold; I can’t take off my skin if I’m too hot.” 

Zevran helps pull the canvas over the frame, assisting with the drape as Alistair secures it. A gust of wind buffets the flapping material, stealing Zevran’s breath like a knife to his lungs.

“How can you possibly live like this?” he demands. Zevran pulls his cloak tighter, but it does nothing to ward off the chill. “You and all your…” 

Alistair stands, slowly, towering over Zevran, improbably close. “All my…?” he prods.

“Muscles,” Zevran mumbles. “Keeps you warm. Alas, my own slight frame.” 

Alistair’s laugh fills the small campsite. “Right, right,” he says, blushing, “because being a hulking mass is better than a slippery shadow. I’ve seen you sneak around. It’s…” 

Zevran’s ears perk at the tentative way Alistair trails off. “Yes?” 

A shaking breath escapes Alistair, curling like dragon’s smoke in the dying light. “It’s incredible,” he says at last. His warm eyes meet Zevran’s own for but a moment before he takes a step away. 

Zevran already misses him, just a few feet between them. He tamps down the urge to follow and press his cold nose into the hinge of Alistair’s jaw. Sometimes Alistair says something, does something interesting, some earnest little action that catches Zevran off-guard, makes him want. 

But no. Alistair is still some blushing Chantry boy… isn’t he? 

* * *

No amount of curling into his fur blanket helps Zevran stay warm once night falls. He shivers, still fully dressed beneath the bear fur, teeth chattering; he bites his tongue for the third time and growls before throwing up his hands. 

“This is ridiculous,” Zevran hisses. He chafes his hands and feet together, begging his limbs to warm again. Zevran sits up and stuffs his feet in his boots, still wet from the trek. With a huff, he wraps his fur around his shoulders and stalks out of his tent.

“Alistair,” he calls. He knocks on the front tent pole with a shaking hand. “Ali, let me in.” 

“Zev?” 

“I’m cold... I need help.” 

A shuffling sound comes from the tent, then a soft, sleepy, “Come in.” 

Zevran steps into the tent. It’s no warmer than his own, objectively, but even he knows that winter can be abated with enough body heat. He toes off his boots and ties the tent flaps closed behind him as a lantern lights at his back.

Alistair watches him intently when Zevran turns around. “Body heat,” Zevran mutters by way of explanation. “You… are a very warm man. I am not.” 

Alistair snorts. “Come here,” is all he says, patting the bedroll beside him. He rolls onto his side, making room, and Zevran greedily drinks up the lingering heat trapped in the bedclothes when he slips beside Alistair. 

“Give me your hands.” Alistair nods encouragingly when Zevran follows the command. He rubs warmth into the frozen digits with careful movements, bringing them to his mouth to blow hot air over them. He shifts to chafe his hands over the skin of Zevran’s arms, squeezing gently.

“Where did you learn this?”

Alistair looks up. “What?” 

Zevran purses his lips. “This.”

“Oh.” Alistair shrugs. “I was training to be a templar, remember?” He gives a pained smile. “They’re supposed to be useful in all sorts of climates. Deep winter training was something I excelled at. I’m naturally very warm.” 

It’s a fact Zevran appreciates dearly. “I’ve noticed,” he says, watching with rapt attention as Alistair breathes over his fingers again. 

He grumbles pointedly when Alistair sits up, their shared blankets slipping down and revealing a deep-cut sleeping tunic. His protest is cut short when Alistair’s big hands feel out for one of Zevran’s legs. 

One hand wraps almost entirely around Zevran’s legging-clad calf. 

It’s… a problem. 

“What—” Zevran squeaks, voice breaking. He clears his throat and tries again. “What are you doing now?”

“I… massage? I guess?” 

“You guess?” 

Alistair nods, huffing through his nose. “I remember we had to massage the limbs of a guy who developed frostbite, bring blood back into his extremities. I don’t think you have frostbite, but…” 

Zevran lets out a shaking breath at the way Alistair’s fingers clutch his leg. “Well then,” he murmurs. “Go on, if you think it will help. I defer to your expertise, my friend.” 

Alistair colors in the low light. His eyes almost glow--curious, Zevran thinks, just before his mind goes blank with pain. 

“Shh, hey, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Alistair removes his hands and Zevran groans. “Sorry, I didn’t mean--are you all right?” 

“It is not--the most comfortable of massages I’ve ever had, no.” Zevran lets his breath out in a soft hiss and shakes his pins-and-needles leg toward Alistair’s hands once more. “Please…”

Alistair pulls a face. “Are you sure?” 

“Ali. My friend. I am  _ freezing _ . Please, if you can fix that…” 

Alistair’s hands are so warm they scorch as he works his magic. Zevran can’t help the moan that escapes him as the blood rushes back to his foot. Alistair presses his thumbs deep into the muscle, working at a knot there before moving from his calf down toward his foot. 

If only he would move those hands upward, Zevran thinks deliriously, a new warmth pooling in his gut. 

Alistair switches to the other leg and begins the process anew. It’s not so bad this time, with Zevran having warmed up bit by bit through Alistair’s cautious ministrations. He works in silence, looking up occasionally to give a lopsided smile before returning to his task.

“How do you feel?”

“Sleepy,” Zevran slurs. Content, he thinks, were it not for the season. “Come back to Antiva with me, we’ll make millions.”

Alistair chuckles. “Tempting.” He busies himself with sliding into the blankets, corralling the furs tightly around Zevran’s body. “Zev?”

“Mm?” 

“You’re not going to… this isn’t some pretense, right?” 

The question comes like a slap. Zevran reels back among the blankets. “What?”

“I mean—” Alistair blanches. “You’ve told the Warden of your conquests, how you lure them into a sense of security before, well.” 

“Spit it out, Alistair,” Zevran says dryly. 

“Well, you are a Crow—” 

“ _ Was _ . I  _ was _ a Crow. An important distinction, that.” Zevran sits up, the furs falling to his waist. “I cannot believe—it’s been almost a year!” 

Alistair hisses back, “You’re a professional assassin who was literally sent to kill us!” 

Whatever warmth had been growing in Zevran dashes against the rocks of his disappointment. He sighs. “I thought we were friends, you and I. I suppose I was wrong. Thank you, Ser Alistair, for reminding me of that.” 

“Don’t be like that. Zev, come on,” Alistair wheedles. His hand lands at Zevran’s wrist as Zevran gathers his blanket about him, stopping him cold. “I’m sorry, I just--sometimes I think we’re friends and I get reminded about how bad an idea that can be. I mean, I’m about to sleep with you—n-not like that,” he stammers, blushing under Zevran’s hard gaze, “but in the normal sense. Oh, Maker’s fucking breath. I’ve ruined it. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh no, do go on digging yourself this hole.” 

Alistair groans and flops back into the bedroll. He stares up at the ceiling and Zevran stamps down a twinge of pity. 

“I… I didn’t have friends growing up,” he says. Alistair doesn’t look away from the shadowy apex of the tent’s ceiling. “I wasn’t allowed to play with the village kids, and there were no children among the servants of the castle. Back at the Monastery, you had a cohort that would be dissolved at the end of your training, sent off to various Chantries, never to be seen again. I never got to be good at having them—friends, I mean—so now… it’s almost surreal.”

Zevran sniffs and pulls his blanket tighter around his shoulders, letting it cocoon him from the cold. “You think there were friends among the Crows?” he sneers. “I am one the sole survivor of my clutch, Alistair. Out of a hundred of us, I survived. I—I had to  _ thrive _ like that. Do not blame me for what I had to do to please my masters and live another day.” 

“I… I didn’t know.” His hand reaches out and pats Zevran’s knee. “I’m sorry.” 

Zevran wilts into his blanket. “... _ braska, _ it’s cold. Damn your precious Ferelden. Teach it to have better weather.”

“I’ll get right on that.” Alistair rolls to his side and pats the bedroll. “In the meantime, come here. Least I can do, after shoving my whole foot in my mouth.” 

Zevran slants a weak glare his way. “You’re not still secretly afraid?” 

“Maker, I’m always afraid. But you—you’re my friend, aren’t you?” Alistair asks, tentative, soft. ”I hope so, even though I’m dumb sometimes…” 

“You are not dumb, Ali,” Zevran mutters under his breath. He holds out a moment longer before crawling back into Alistair’s bedroll, burrowing into the warm bulwark of Alistair’s chest. His bear fur drapes atop the two of them, cradling them in growing heat. 

Zevran does nudge his freezing nose into the hollow of Alistair’s collar bone, and smiles indulgently to himself at the resulting yelp. 

Alistair snuffs the lantern. He wraps his arms around Zevran’s middle, holding him tight against his chest. “Is this okay?” he whispers. 

Zevran flexes his hands against the planes of Alistair’s back and twines their legs together. He snorts. “Very much so,” Zevran replies. “Halfway bearable now.” 

“Only halfway, huh?” 

Zevran nods in the darkness. “One of these days, Ali, my friend, I’ll take you to Antiva. You’ll see what I mean. White sand beaches, golden sunlight, spice markets and trader’s squares… It’s nothing like Ferelden.”

“Sounds like you miss it.” 

He shrugs. “Yes and no. There is much to miss, much to love, but also much to fear. I would not go back to be a Crow. I am thankful to the Warden for sparing my life.” Zevran nudges Alistair’s shoulder. “And to you, even though you spoke against it.” 

“Me?” Alistair asked, voice warbling. “What—why? I was a jerk! I wanted… I wanted to get rid of you and be done with it. Move on.” He pulls back, and Zevran can feel the weight of Ali’s gaze on his face. “What could you possibly be thankful for me for?” 

“Getting to know your little group, I figured you and I would not become bosom friends. Oh, how you distrusted me then! Kept me at a distance, one hand on your dagger. But then… Something changed, and I don’t know what. You changed.” Zevran reaches up to pull Alistair back down and plasters himself against his wide chest. “You willingly invite me to your tent to keep me from dying in my sleep. You let me sleep in your bed to keep from freezing. Do not think that any of the others offered to be so magnanimous.” 

Alistair stammers out, “You—you probably wouldn’t die, it just—just wouldn’t be very comfortable…” His arms tighten, fitting into the curve of Zevran’s waist. “I just…” 

“Just…?” 

“I… just want you to be okay,” Alistair finishes on a whisper. His breath ruffles Zevran’s hair where it escapes his nightly braid. “Safe.” 

“‘Safe,’” Zevran echoes with a touch of awe. “In the middle of a civil war punctuated by the damned Blight.” 

“I can try,” Alistair protests. “I can try to keep you all safe. I’m good at that, at fighting. It’s what I’ve trained for, almost half my life now. I can keep you safe.” 

Something twinges in Zevran’s chest at the decisive proclamation. He nuzzles into Alistair’s clothed shoulder. “I know you can, Ali. I… I trust that.” Even though I shouldn’t, he thinks. 

Alistair melts around him, hands rubbing errant circles into Zevran’s back. “Zev?”

“Mm?”

“I like it when you call me that. Ali. It’s nice.”

Zevran smiles. “I like it when you call me Zev.” 

“Good! Good. I remembered that, you know, from the beginning.”

“Hmm?” 

He can hear the smile in Alistair’s voice. “You said your name was Zevran, but Zev to your friends. I remember being a jerk about it, though, thinking something along the lines of ‘but how does he have friends?’” Alistair shakes his head. “Maker, I was an ass.” 

“I hope we can forgive each other our past,” Zevran yawns. He smiles sleepily into Ali’s shoulder. “There is so much better to be had to be dwelling on the past overmuch.” 

“Yeah… you’re right.” Alistair nods. He shifts, shuffling to better cocoon Zevran against the cold winds that rattle the tent. “Goodnight, Zev,” he murmurs into Zevran’s hair. 

Zevran pats Alistair’s back fondly. “Mmm. Goodnight, Ali.” 

* * *

Zevran comes to consciousness languidly, like a cat, stretched out atop Alistair’s chest. Ali’s hand cards through the loose hair that spills out between them, long since revolted against the confines of his braid. 

“Good morning,” Alistair whispers, as if this is some spell he loathes to break. 

“Good morning,” Zevran murmurs back. He blinks the lingering dreams from his eyes and stretches his hands, unwilling to move from his perch. “I would say I’m sorry but you are a most comfortable pillow.” 

“Don’t be. I didn’t want to wake you, you looked so comfortable.” 

They lapse into a companionable silence, just watching one another. Something blooms in Zevran’s chest at the intensity of Alistair’s stare. 

“Keep looking at me like that and I just may have to kiss you,” Zevran jokes weakly. Alistair’s eyes blow wide with surprise. 

“You… wow,” he says, face blushing a deep pink. Zevran’s own cheeks flush in kind. “Would you? Kiss me, I mean. You… fancy men?” 

Zevran snorts. “I fancy many things. I fancy things that are beautiful and things that are strong. I fancy things that are dangerous and exciting...” He trails off, suddenly unsure, but smiles anyway. “Would you be offended if I said I fancied you?”

Alistair breathes heavily beneath him. He gulps audibly. “No,” he finally whispers. “No, I wouldn’t.” 

“Good. Then hopefully you won’t mind if I...?” 

“Please.” 

Zevran grins. “As you command,” he says glibly, licking his lips. Heat pools in his belly at the way Alistair tracks the small movement. Zevran crawls up his body, straddling his waist, and bends down to pillow his mouth to Alistair’s own. 

It’s clumsy at first. Alistair doesn’t seem to have much experience in the game, but what he lacks he makes up for with enthusiasm. His hands tunnel into Zevran’s hair, pulling him closer. He groans in a way that sends a shiver down Zevran’s spine, the sound obscene for all the chastity of the kiss. 

But that’s all it is, trading lazy kisses on a cold morning like they have all the time in the world. Alistair levers up to press Zevran into the thin mattress of their shared bedroll, caging him in, surrounding him, and Zevran whines. Alistair kisses his way down Zevran’s jaw to nip at the sensitive skin where his jaw and throat meet. 

“Ali…” Zevran gives a breathy sigh, smiling. His hands brush through Alistair’s hair.

Alistair peeks up. “Too much?” he asks, lips berry-red and kiss-swollen. 

“Kiss me again,” Zevran demands, and, laughing, Alistair does, again, and again, and again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
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